They always do.
In these types of towns, strangers get a lot of attention. Which means I need to find Gizmo and get out of McBride Mountain as soon as possible.
I glance up at a sign draped across the road, announcing a Memorial Day Festival that must have happened yesterday, so I might be in luck. Maybe there are enough tourists here for the festivities that no one will notice me too much. Just one more stranger lingering after the long weekend to enjoy the North Carolina scenery.
If I’m lucky.
But the irony of my name is that I never have been.
I hustle down Main Street, lined with more carvings of animals in front of various businesses as it starts to come more alive—a few more cars and trucks, several people coming out of the shops that line the sidewalk to set out signs and brush off the areas in front with brooms, but every single set of eyes watches me as I move past them.
“You haven’t seen a French bulldog have you?”
Each person I ask shakes their head and offers me luck in finding him, and the irony is not lost on me.
My skin crawls at all the attention focused on me the longer I’m out here on Main Street, and I tip my head down slightly while keeping my attention focused on my target: the small diner that’s just ahead on the right.
I glance at my watch and find it’s not even seven yet, which means the vet is unlikely to open for at least another hour, perhaps later.
Shit.
That means killing time.
A lot of it.
I pause at the small parking lot for Wilson’s Diner. A carved bear holding a picnic basket stands directly outside the front door, and only one truck sits in the dozen or so spots, so at least there won’t be very many people in there while I wait.
Gathering my nerves, I approach the front door and tug it open.
A bell jingles over my head, and I step in.
The smells of breakfast hit me instantly.
Oh, my God.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Pancakes.
Toast.
My stomach rumbles even harder, and I place my hand over it in a useless attempt to quiet the sound before anyone hears it.
A woman with dark hair graying at her temples stands behind the counter, wiping it down. She smiles at me. “Can I help you, honey?”
“Hi, I, um…just need to sit for a little while, while I wait for the vet to open.”
Her brow furrows. “The vet?”
“I lost my dog. You haven’t seen him, have you? He’s?—”
“I have him.”
The deep voice rumbles through me like an avalanche charging down the mountain about to engulf me completely, raising goosebumps on my skin as it somehow simultaneously heats it.
I freeze on the spot, slowly turning my head toward the man seated in the corner booth with a half-eaten breakfast plate in front of him. Mossy green eyes lock squarely on me, but I tear my gaze away and down to a very familiar dog curled up in his lap who doesn’t seem at all concerned about the fact that he hasn’t seen me since last night.
